Sunday, December 28, 2008

.But is there a way out? Imaginein insomnia the forests that growat such hours in other regions, the trainsthat cross them to reach a destinationin the future of others.

Is there a way our? Imaginenight filled with violent cities,the rumbling of engines in the subwaysand rain falling on the black plasticof strawberry fields, all the sufferingand uncertainty of the world.

And in the morning, look, it's a beautifulday Your friends are getting up in the other room,they're heading down to the kitchen to make coffee.

Monday, December 22, 2008

.Drifting and mimicking the loss of the windWith a loss of mind,Left slack-sailed here in the sea, doing nothing at allFor days, we beginTaking our lives uneasily. Only the daylightAnd the cracked chronometerAre moving. Though we turn away from the sunOr rise under the moonAs if we were earth and tide, the rest is stillness.If we broke our silence,This palpable air would ripple obediently,But our voices falter.They melt on the sea, as brief as glints of starlight.On the deep dry landWhy did we never think of the miles and milesUnder us, holding us?Above half-leagues of water, we think of littleElse than how deeplyThe two of us might sink, turning to foodFor the thoughts of others.We could have stayed on firmanent, on a desertWhere water waves goodbye,Goodbye, and vanishes, a plain where it flowsOn its own sight journeys,Or on mountains where we could watch it frozen, toppling(Instead of us) down cliffsides.But here we huddle, surrounded. From miles below,Now, come the monstersToward the glassy calm around us, uncoiling,Lifting kelp-raggedSlime-scaled snag-toothed cold impossible heads.Eyes filled to the brimWith blankness, breaching and hulking, slewing toward usWhere we drift like lures.Though they come closer, closer, blurred in the dark,They never strike, neverLoom, ravenous, never thrash the surfaceTo break this mirror.

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

She sits naked on a rocka few yards out in the water.He stands on the shore,also naked, picking blueberries.She calls. He turns. she opensher legs showing him her great beauty,and smiles , a bow of lipsseeming to tie togetherthe ends of the earth.Splashing her imageto pieces, he wades outand stands before her, sunkto the anklebones in leaf-mushand bottom-slime—the intimacyof the geographical. He putsa berry in its shirtof mist into her mouthShe swallows it. He puts in another.She swallows it. Over the laketwo swallows whim, juke jink,and when one snatchesan insect they both whirl up and exult. He is swollennot with ichor but with blood.She takes him and talks himmore swollen. He kneels, opensthe dark, vertical smilelinking heaven with the underearthand murmurs her smoothest flesh more smooth.On top of the rock they join.somewhere a frog moans, a crow screams.The hair of their bodiesstartles up. They cryin the tongue of the last gods,who refused to go,chose death, and shudderedin joy and shattered in pieces,bequeathing their criesinto the human breast. Now in the laketwo faces, floating, see upa great maternal pine whose branchesopen out in all directionsexplaining everything.

Thursday, December 11, 2008

.Taking what is, and seeing it as it is,Pretending to no heroic stances or gestures,Keeping it simple; being in love with lightAnd the marvelous things that light is able to do,How beautiful a modesty which isSeductive extremely, the care for daily things.

At one for once with sunlight falling throughA leaded window, the holy mathematicPlays out the cat's cradle of relationEndlessly; even the inexorableDomesticates itself and becomes charm.

If I could say to you, and make it stick,A girl in a red hat, a woman in blueReading a letter, a lady weighing gold . . .If I could say this to you so you saw,And knew, and agreed that this was how it wasIn a lost city across the sea of years,I think we should be for one moment happyIn the great reckoning of those little roomsWhere the weight of life has been lifted and made light,Or standing invisible on the shore opposed,Watching the water in the foreground dreamReflectively, taking a view of DelftAs it was, under a wide and darkening sky.

Tuesday, December 09, 2008

.No sheltered world . . . on the other side of the wall thenoise beginTomas Tranströmer - VermeerTranslated from the Swedish by ?
No sheltered world . . . on the other side of the wall thenoise beginsthe tavern beginswith laughter and bickering, rows of teeth, tears, the dinof bellsand the mentally disordered brother-in-law, the bearerof death that everyone must tremble for.
The great explosion and the delayed tramp of rescuersthe boats that strut at anchor, the money that creeps intothe pocket of the wrong persondemands piled on demandsCusps of gaping red flowers that sweat premonitions ofwar
Away from there and straight through the wall into thebright studiointo the second that goes on living for hundreds of years.Paintings titled The Music Lessonor Woman in Blue Reading a Letter --she's in her eighth month, two hearts kicking inside her.On the wall behind her hangs a wrinkled map of TerraIncognita.
Breathe calmly . . . An unknown blue material is nailedto the chair.The gold upholstery tacks flew in with unheard-of speedand stopped abruptlyas if they had never been anything but stillness.The ears ring with either depth or height.sthe tavern beginswith laughter and bickering, rows of teeth, tears, the dinof bellsand the mentally disordered brother-in-law, the bearerof death that everyone must tremble for.
The great explosion and the delayed tramp of rescuersthe boats that strut at anchor, the money that creeps intothe pocket of the wrong persondemands piled on demandsCusps of gaping red flowers that sweat premonitions ofwar
Away from there and straight through the wall into thebright studiointo the second that goes on living for hundreds of years.Paintings titled The Music Lessonor Woman in Blue Reading a Letter --she's in her eighth month, two hearts kicking inside her.On the wall behind her hangs a wrinkled map of TerraIncognita.
Breathe calmly . . . An unknown blue material is nailedto the chair.The gold upholstery tacks flew in with unheard-of speedand stopped abruptlyas if they had never been anything but stillness.The ears ring with either depth or height.It's the pressure from the other side of the wallthat leaves every fact suspendedand holds the brush steady.
It hurts to go through walls, it makes you sickbut it's necessary.The world is one. But walls . . .And the wall is part of yourself --Whether you know it or not it's the same for everyone,everyone except little children. No walls for them.
The clear sky has set itself on a slant against the wall.It's like a prayer to emptiness.And the emptiness turns its face to usand whispers,"I am not empty, I am open."Tomas Tranströmer - VermeerTranslated from the Swedish by ?
No protected world . . . Just behind the wall the noise begins, the innwith laughter and bickering, rows of teeth, tears, the din of bellsand the insane brother-in-law, the death-bringer we all must tremble for.
The big explosion and tramp of rescue arriving late.the boats preening themselves on the straits, the money creeping downin the wrong man's pocketdemands stacked on demandsgaping red flowerheads sweating premonitions of war.
And through the wall into the clear studiointo the second that's allowed to live for centuries.Pictures that call themselves The music Lessonor Woman in Blue Reading a Letter––she's in her eighth month, two hearts kicking inside her.On the wall behind is a wrinkled map of Terra Incognita.
Breathe calming . . . An unknown blue material is nailed to the chairs.The gold studs flew in with incredible speedand stopped abruptlyas if they had never been other than stillness.
Ears sing, from depth of height.It's the pressure from the other side of the wall.It makes each fact floatand steadies the brush.
It hurts to go through walls, it makes you illbut is necessary.The world is one. But walls . . . And the wall is part of yourself––we know or we don't know but it's true for us allexcept for small children. No walls for them.
The clear sky has leaned against the wall.It's like a prayer to the emptiness.And the emptiness turns its face to usand whispers."I am not empty. I am open."

Monday, December 08, 2008

True love. Is it normalis it serious, is it practical?What does the world get from two peoplewho exist in a world of their own?

Placed on the same pedestal for no good reason,drawn randomly from millions but convincedit had to happen this way - in reward for what? For nothing.The light descends from nowhere.Why on these two and not on others?Doesn't this outrage justice? Yes it does.Doesn't it disrupt our painstakingly erected principles,and cast the moral from the peak? Yes on both accounts.

Look at the happy couple.Couldn't they at least try to hide it,fake a little depression for their friends' sake?Listen to them laughing - its an insult.The language they use - deceptively clear.And their little celebrations, rituals,the elaborate mutual routines -it's obviously a plot behind the human race's back!

It's hard even to guess how far things might goif people start to follow their example.What could religion and poetry count on?What would be remembered? What renounced?Who'd want to stay within bounds?

True love. Is it really necessary?Tact and common sense tell us to pass over it in silence,like a scandal in Life's highest circles.Perfectly good children are born without its help.It couldn't populate the planet in a million years,it comes along so rarely.

Let the people who never find true lovekeep saying that there's no such thing.

Monday, December 01, 2008

.Above my desk, whirring and self-important(Though not much larger than a hummingbird)In finely woven robes, school of Van Eyck,Hovers an evidently angelic visitor.He points one index finger out the windowAs winter snatching to its heart,To crystal vacancy, the mistyExhalations of houses and of people running homeFrom the cold sun pounding on the sea;While with the other handHe indicates the pianoWhere the Sarabande No. 1 lies openAt a passage I shall never masterBut which has already, and effortlessly, mastered me.He drops his jaw as if to say, or sing,"Between the world God madeAnd this music of Satie,Each glimpsed through veils, but whole,Radiant and willed,Demanding praise, demanding surrender,How can you sit there with your notebook?What do you think you are doing?"However he says nothing –– wisely: I could mentionFlaws in God's world, or Satie's; and for that matterHow did he come by his taste for Satie?Half to tease him, I turn back to my page,Its phrases thus far clotted, unconnected.The tiny angel shakes his head.There is no smile on his round, hairless face.He does not want even these few lines written.